William Tyree - Line of Succession

On the street below, Ulysses troops were taking cover behind their Bradleys, having already figured out that the hostile fire was coming from the northwest and southwest corners of the street. Ellis decided to give them something to worry about from the east. She targeted a soldier reloading her weapon from behind one of those big Bradleys.

Despite firing her weapon dozens of times in Iraq, Ellis had, to the best off her knowledge, never killed anyone. This was to be the first. “God forgive me,” she whispered. Then she exhaled and squeezed the trigger.

The White House

12:23 p.m.

The steady crackle of gunfire grew more audible as Carver opened the oak-and-walnut-framed door to the Oval Office. LeBron stayed close, his oversized hands trembling as he held fast to Carver’s left arm. They stood before the couch where Carver and Speers had sat with the President on Sunday morning. Where so many pivotal meetings had taken place throughout history.

Carver realized that he had better put his reverence for the Oval Office behind him. Some things had to be destroyed in order to be saved.

He sized up the room from a defensive perspective. There were four entrance points — doors opened to the Rose Garden, the President’s private study, Mary Chung’s office and the West Wing corridor. None of the doors had locks, making it a less than ideal place to fend off an attack. The lone opportunity for cover was the Executive Desk, which looked to be made of heavy wood. From the room’s south-facing windows he could glimpse Ulysses troops shoring up positions across the South Lawn and the Ellipse.

He laid his M4 across the Executive Desk and peered out the windows to the Rose Garden. The intensity of the firefight along 17th, 15th and Pennsylvania was encouraging, but it also came with risk. Unless Ulysses could somehow be cut off, they could decide to retreat into the White House itself. If that happened, Carver would have no way of holding them. Rios would have no choice but to blow the place.

He dialed Agent Rios to establish some ground rules. “Call me every five minutes,” Carver said. “If I don’t answer, or we get cut off abruptly, you know what to do.”

“What if you lose signal?” Rios protested. “I can’t torch the White House on a dropped call!”

“Then call the land line,” Carver said. “I’m in the Oval Office.”

“You’re where?”

“You heard me. If I don’t answer, it means Wainewright is already here.”

He hung up. LeBron peered out the window like a nervous cat. Every pore in his adolescent body was crying out for survival. “Can I go?” he pleaded. He gazed up at Carver, who at thirty-eight was old enough to be the 12-year-old’s father. “Please? I can run fast.”

The kid didn’t exactly look like a track star. He was all baby fat and dimples. “Get under the desk,” Carver said. “It’s the safest place. Unless they come in from the West Wing. If that happens, make a run for the Rose Garden,” he said, pointing at the vast rows of flora planted along the West Wing perimeter. “Get behind a bush and stay there until the guns go quiet.”

The boy nodded solemnly. “What if something happens to you?”

“Then make friends with whoever’s still alive.”

*

Down in the Executive Fallout Shelter, six Ulysses MPs stepped in from the tunnels and secured the room. Wainewright and Farrell followed, along with two journalists from Stars and Stripes — the military’s “independent” news source. The journalists wore heavy packs containing cameras, computers and mobile broadcast equipment.

Wainewright instructed the Ulysses troops to guard the tunnel entrance. The two generals, along with the journalists, went up the staircase into the Executive Mansion. In less than five minutes they would enter the Oval Office, where Wainewright would address the world community as the leader of a new America.

Farrell regained phone reception and began downloading a series of reports. He sniffed the foul air. The ghastly odor of smoke, gunpowder, diesel fuel and tear gas — a byproduct of the street battle — wafted through the mansion’s ventilation ducts.

“We are encountering some resistance,” Farrell reported as he read a message from the Ulysses field commander. He yearned for a cigarette, then thought better of it. Wainewright was in a delicate mood. There was no sense in angering him.

“By who?”

“Certain elements of the FBI, sir.” He found himself unable to provide the General with additional details, for fear that he would overreact.

“Authorize the use of indiscriminate force on all enemies of the state,” Wainewright said. “Scramble a squadron of attack helicopters. I want the FBI headquarters reduced to rubble.”

Farrell couldn’t hide his shock. “There are civilians working in that building.”

“Zero tolerance,” Wainewright said. “It’s the shortest path to stability.”

Walking slowly behind his master, Farrell doubted the Air Force would obey the order. He also could not curb his cravings. He plucked a cigarette from his front pocket and reached into his front pants pocket for a lighter. He sparked the cigarette and inhaled, savoring the taste of the unfiltered tobacco. “Sir,” Farrell said nervously, “I think this could be counterproductive.”

The Chairman pulled the white antique Colt.45 revolver from his holster and shot Farrell through his smoking hand. The bullet passed through the back of Farrell’s left hand, through his mouth and eventually lodged near his cerebellum. The Vice-Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff crumpled at Wainewright’s feet.

Wainewright lingered on the gory image for only a moment. He looked up at the horrified S tars and Stripes journalists. “Obviously we’ll memorialize him as a hero,” Wainewright said. “Start working on the story.”

He began up the stairs. Wainewright’s mind turned to the broadcast he would soon be making from the Oval Office. He would stick to the talking points they’d been feeding the networks since Sunday. He would reinforce what the public had already been told — that Allied Jihad cells from Yemen and other extremist countries had infiltrated the United States and struck a crippling blow to the country. He would say that the foreign perpetrators had been dealt with, and that additional names and details would be forthcoming.

Then he would tell the American public something new — that the terrorists had help from within the federal government, from right within President Hatch’s own cabinet. Eva Hudson. Julian Speers. People the President trusted most had been unhappy with the direction the country was going and decided to overthrow the administration in a mad scramble for power. He would promise to prosecute these traitors and bring them to justice.

Burlington

12:26 p.m.

Nico watched the shaky, hand-held camera view of dark smoke rising from behind the Red Cross building along 17th, just a block from the White House. Since the FAA had grounded all news network helicopters this morning, news feeds amounted to a few frightened journalists delivering blow-by-blow reports from behind buildings and cars.

He refocused on the task at hand. It had taken longer than he would have liked, but he had been able to use the slave machine he had acquired in the Ulysses USA Chantilly headquarters to network into the company’s combat operations center. From there, he would be able to send instant messages to ground troops that would appear to be from central command. Theoretically, he now had the power to manipulate the very forces that were blockading the White House.

Nico realized that there were two problems with this strategy. First, thanks to the spotty news coverage, he had no way of knowing what the battleground really looked like. Without the ability to see Ulysses troop positions, any bogus directives Nico might issue to Ulysses forces might inadvertently help them. The second problem was that his directives had to seem realistic. If he issued something that didn’t smell right — like sudden withdrawal — it would only take seconds for a field commander to countermand the order. There had to be some slight but significant movement that would tip the scales against them.